The Mauraders

For a brief time, when I began teaching and coaching, I considered myself a master motivator. Don’t ask me why I thought that; It was self-delusion at its worst, and, as I found out, freshmen kids were more than willing (and able) to show me how wrong a self-inflated coach could be. In the 1950’s Paul Dietzel of LSU came up with an innovative idea that fascinated me. He took a group of non-starters and formed them into a cohesive unit that played sparingly on defense, but when he sent them into a game, the Chinese Bandits, as they were named, would play with unbridled intensity and enthusiasm. After disrupting the other team’s offense for a few plays, the Bandits would return to the sideline and the starters would continue their methodical dismantling of the opponent’s offense. I loved the idea of the Chinese Bandits, an idea that somehow reached across the nation to the southwest corner of the most northwesterly state in the U.S.

When we were seniors, Bob Harp, Coach Harp to us, was able to get us new black uniforms (our colors were cardinal and black), and we were unveiled in our first game as the the Black Bandit defense. It was a great name, a beautiful name, and we players took that name, wrapped ourselves in it, and ran with it. Ocosta High School tried to rain on our parade by calling themselves the Pink Pansies. We, however, did not let that bother us. We were the Black Bandits, and no snide bullets could penetrate our armor. I loved the idea so much that I took it with me when I began coaching at Alderwood Junior High in the Edmonds School District. At Alderwood, I came up with the Mustang Marauders (Mustang Bandits invokes images of a gang of horses and, as an English teacher, I wanted something alliterative like Mustang Meatheads). The first step was to select the team, and that was not as easy as I had anticipated. When I explained what we were going to do, everyone wanted to be part of it. However, I had to make some tough choices, no starters but kids who were close to starting, so that eliminated the kids who were still putting their shoulder pads on backwards or hadn’t quite mastered the art of buckling up their chinstraps. What I learned from this entire episode was the huge gap in talent between the starters and those who weren’t quite there yet.

The newly formed Marauders were understandably anxious to get onto the field. They worked as a unit in practice and did fairly well. I didn’t expect miracles, but all we needed was two or three plays with extreme intensity. If excitement and motivation can win football games, then we would win this one easily. I just had to find the right moment, the right situation. In the first game, although we played all the kids, we didn’t play the Marauders as a unit. Behind me on the bench, I could hear them muttering , “Coach, the Marauders, Don’t forget the Marauders. We’re ready.” In the second game, however, I saw the chance. The opponents had the ball on their own thirty yard line. The Marauders were muttering again.”We’re ready. Coach.” This was perfect, so with a flourish, I said, “Marauders, get in there!” They tumbled onto the field, hopping and jumping, screaming and yelling. The other team broke the huddle; the Marauders were hopping up and down, screaming at the top of their lungs. The other team ran to the line and lined up. The Marauders stopped hopping long enough to line up correctly and get into their stances just as their opponents snapped the ball. Like the Parting of the Red Sea, the Marauder defense stepped aside and opened up a vision of the Promised Land. With a light shining down from the heavens, the goal posts, seventy yards away, must have proved irresistible to the opposing running back who was soon basking In the glow of that light. No Marauder touched him, None laid a glove on him.

The newly formed Mustang Marauders shuffled off the field, heads down. In as calm of a voice as I could muster, I said, “Well. Guys, I think that we need to work on our tackling a little. First, we need to move our feet a bit faster in order to be in a position to tackle someone, preferably one of our opponent’s running backs. We’re going back to work tomorrow.” I shelved the Marauders for a couple of weeks even though they hadn’t lost faith in themselves as a unit. They were still muttering on the bench, “Coach, that was a mistake. It won’t happen again, you’ll see.” I had to reward that faith, so we practiced and got better and after a two-game hiatus, I felt that they were ready. It was a perfect situation on the opponent’s 35 yard-line. They had received a five-yard penalty, so it was first and fifteen on their own 35, 65 yards to go for a touchdown. The Marauders were even more excited than the last time they were on the field. Screaming and hollering, they lined up, The other team snapped the ball and, untouched by Marauder hands, the opposing running back soon found himself in the end zone. What do you say to your team when they drag themselves slowly off the field? “Well, guys, I don’t know how much you know about statistics, but so far the other teams are averaging 671/2 yards against us. That’s not good. I’m afraid that we are going to have to disband the Marauders. You’ll still play in the games, but not as Marauders. It was a good idea that didn’t work, My fault.”

I also found out that kids take coaches literally most of the time. When I pointed out number 87, an opposing receiver, and told the defensive back to stick on that guy like glue, go wherever he goes, be inside his jersey, I was just trying to stress the importance of staying on his man. After turning around to talk to an injured player, I looked back and scanned the field. Something was wrong. I counted our players and we only had ten! Who wasn’t out there? Frantically, I looked on our bench and sideline to find the answer. Then I looked across the field. The opposing coach had taken number 87 out of the game and our guy went with him. There he stood, watching the game from the opponent’s sideline. Another lesson learned. Don’t use figurative language with a kid, because kids are literal. Jim O.